Fifteen tiny swallows
Fifteen tiny swallows
All perched upon a fence
Oh what handsome fellows
But here, let me commence
To speak of all their beauty
These tiny little birds
All black and cream with a reddish throat
Oh how my heart they stirred
A lady walking with her dog
Disturbed these little guys
So from the fence these birds take wing
And head towards the skies
It seems that they are dancing
In the way they fly around
They always seem to fly in circles
And nearly touch the ground.
I walk around these wetlands
And wonder at it all
Everyday it’s something else
And it’s all so beautiful
Ducks and swallows, parrots too
And the beauty of the lake
I love to walk there most of all
At the coming of the daybreak.
16 August 2013 @ 1510hrs.

To their government Utah is true -
Not just state, but the federal too,
and so with great pride
they display on each side
of their flag the old Red, White and Blue.
Also famous for their industry,
Utah honors the cute bumble bee,
of which I now brag.
Center stage on their flag
is the hive of the bee….. naturally!
On Utah’s state flag is an eagle -
The symbol of peace, it is regal!
Pioneers, though, preferred,
a more interesting bird.
Why not on the flag is a seagull?
Most Utahans should know the story.
Long ago, crickets tried to destroy
the crops, till each gull
in Salt Lake ate them all!
That bald eagle has stolen gull’s glory!
Now a monument in Salt lake stands
for the sea gull, and isn’t it grand
that a bird that should be
living nearby the sea
is in love with a dry desert land!
Written by Andrea Dieitrich
July 22, 2015 for the contest of Judy Konos
NOTE: Came back here to say it's Pioneer Day (July 24). Utah is the only state to celebrate it. I can hear fireworks outside my house!!

Footprints drift on a wetland,
swiveling through pewter of morning
as contours of a stately heron unfold
with plumes air-brushed by ripples;
and colors follow her along grasses
in lively strokes from a textured night,
to dip with Florida's studded garlands
while she, curling along a marsh
settles upon her tinted breast
in a lithe waltzing motion, that hikers
inhabit this vignette of quiet reverence
flowing in the state of lush everglade.
Rhonda Johnson- Saunders' Florida Nature
Inspiration from the painting' Majestic Pose'
3/13/2015

Do you know the place?
Beyond the stars where tires fall from trees.
Do you know the place?
The sky is blue but when it rains all you can see are the clouds.
Do you know the place?
Where clowns juggle tree branches with balls.
Do you know the place?
She picks Apple's from trees and eats them before the worms do.
There is a story once told about a bird who flew so high in the sky above the trees that
he could touch the stars and dive so fast that he went through a tire hole,
and landed on a clowns nose. She missed the bird because she was too busy
eating her apples with one worm in one apple.

On that cloudy weekend in June
I hear a soft and graceful tune
from the grey bird on the tree
branch
Singing sweet lullabies felt
blessed in the moment
My body tingles of joy at sight
Gazing out through
my open door,
Letting thoughts fly free
Releasing love out into the horizon
Heart filled with emotion came
over me
Grey bird stood playing its tune
for awhile and on the wings of
letting go
Then as the rain fell from the
sky the grey bird flew away
gracefully
I blew a kiss to the clouds and
utterd these simple words of I
Love You father ( who's now in
heaven ) and yet I hope to hear
that grey bird sing again once
more for me
Farewell, love your son
Poem contest for Debbie -referential

A peaceful place where memories linger,
linger through the grasses upon soft winds,
winds that carry the nightingale as she sings,
sings a lullaby to the passed at restful sleep.
*Not an entry for Nette's contest, but it was inspired by visual #3 (cemetery)

Nature’s Single Dad:
The Australian Emu :
The first 55 days
Emund is busy
preparing his
dance-floor for
partners who’ll put
him to the test.
His pedigree line
has proven with time
that it is now his
turn, to be best.
He hears them emerge
from the bush as
they gather in
answer to nature’s
call.
They dance, and then
go away, they know
they cannot stay;
there is not enough
food for them all.
They dip and they
weave as they mingle
together knowing
that each has a
chance
With his reputation,
there is no
hesitation;
he is ready to join
in the dance.
‘Bonk! Bonk,’ comes
the sound of another
arrival, ‘It’s
Emulena!’ he says
with a grin.
Others move to the
side as he leaves
them mid-stride
to greet this dancer
as she flounces in.
With sensuous,
rhythmic movement of
hips she fluffs up
her boa, it bounces
in time.
He matches her mood.
His movements are
smooth
as they twist and
twirl in their
dancing mime.
He does not fuss
about who takes the
lead, he follows and
their dance now is
ending.
With steps that are
light he glides to
the right,
he meets her, bows
deeply, head
bending.
Emulena says,
“Sorry, we cannot
stay longer, we all
must find paddocks
anew.
It matters not
whether we all stay
together,
we trust you to know
what to do.”
As she speaks, they
deposit their gifts,
and he hears, as in
chorus they say,
“We know you’ll do
magically, what you
do naturally
to deliver these in
your own way.”
After completing her
task, Emulena stands
tall and she fluffs
up her feathers once
more.
They follow her lead
in twos, and in
threes,
and promenade across
the dance floor.
Left all alone, he
goes back to his
duties and looks
closely at each pale
green shell.
He checks all for
defects. He sees
they are perfect,
so with care he
covers every one
well.
He sticks to his
task for fifty-five
days in sunshine,
strong winds and
some showers.
He values each
treasure and tends
them with pleasure
as he, turns each
egg every three
hours.
Through his long
lashes he sees
danger coming. He
drops his neck down
like a log.
Feathers flying on
high and red fur
prowls near-by;
he needs to fool
both bird and dog.
The shells have now
turned a dark bluey
green, there’s an
infertile egg in the
batch.
This egg will be
food for his hungry
brood;
but he won’t eat or
drink, ‘til they
hatch.
Each day he looks
up, and turns his
head to the sun as
it rises each
morning.
He’ll sit day and
night until the
time’s right.
He knows, that time
comes without
warning.
to be continued...

Hand in hand with the breaking pink light of dawn,
A light east breeze dances on tiptoes upon the water’s surface.
I stand on the wooden deck, looking out onto the quiet bay,
Scattered boats gently sway in their moorings.
Making me feel like I am flying amongst them - a bird on a wing,
Flocks of terns swoop and rise in graceful circles close beside me.
Dexterously stepping over the green covered rocks on the shore, three white egrets are here too;
They keenly pick out their breakfast in the lapping tide.
With a swoop and fall, a cormorant dives deftly into the water and disappears,
Moments later the bird emerges several metres away as if out of nowhere.
In a display of alternating flashes of grey and brilliant white,
Plovers so small and so swift turn and glide in controlled unison.
I glance northwards towards a distant gentle hum,
There great ships are silhouetted in the waking harbour.
I stand and breathe in true appreciation;
Oh, the magnificent beauty of this new day.

Greenhaven.
I wake up in the morning with the sunlight on my face
As it glimmers through those Banksias
That thrive around this place
And it feels just like the country
Lots of trees and lots of space
In Greenhaven.
The shops are down the road a bit, but not too far away
And there’s a sense of freedom here, and everything’s okay
Oh! when that sun shines through those trees
At the break of a summers day
In Greenhaven
Greenhaven is the place for me
It lies just out of town
We have our beers and barbecues
When folk they come around
In Greenhaven
I love this happy home of mine
Where the sun shines through those trees
And the cockys scream as they fly above
So alive and wild and free
And I sit and play my old guitar
In this place just made for me
In Greenhaven.

I am eight years old, my friend is ten,
the sky is billions and azure blue,
we are walking to St Bees and the beach, when,
suddenly a skylark soars piping his tune so true.
We watch and listen as the tiny bird,
in undulating flight trills his lovely song,
it is like nothing else that we have ever heard,
and he keeps singing for joy as we continue along
the narrow country lane down to the sea,
where all day we'll explore the rocky shore and weedy fronds,
knowing that there will doubtless be,
myriads of strange creatures in their salty ponds.
I am fifty seven, my friend is fifty nine,
his health is not so good, but he battles on,
myself, I am feeling mostly fine,
although the best years have now gone.
The sky is billions and a bit, and sometimes it is blue,
and as I drive along the still narrow lane
towards St Bees where skylarks once flew,
the only thing flying in the sky is a tiny silver plane,
and the only sounds come from engine noise, and BBC Radio Two.
Down on the beach the rocky pools and seaweed fronds,
all are clearly still there,
but there are not so many animals in their salty ponds,
did they just vanish into thin air?
Or is it perhaps that I can no longer see,
through these older, more tired eyes,
the same things I saw when I was young and free,
when with every day I would unwrap a new surprise?

My walk in the woods I see one quick flittering, humming,
Standing tall ever vigilante a woodpecker begins.
Crown of red feathers builds excitement extreme.
Head jerking quickly looking bold without sins,
This bird has such power discovered in a dream.
Devastating wood in all forms, feasting it would seem.
Songwriters’ blue jays,
Dressed in colors that I see,
Family ties strong,
Flies so silent perched in song.
My relaxed moment is when.
An early bird upon first frost,
Flicking their tails, presenting orange chest,
Written for
Sponsor Constance La France ~ A Rambling Poet ~
Contest Name For(Four)Beautiful Birds
written by
Cecil Hickman
written 05-19-2011

It’s a small townhouse development in New Jersey.
From the names of the streets, you would think you were in Italy.
One section is called “Corte di Roma”.
On the other side sits “Corte di Venezia”
In the middle, there is a small lake and a glade.
In Italian, the name of the place means “The Cascade”.
“Il Paese di Anatre” should be this site’s true moniker.
It seems there are so many ducks around each corner.
Those mallards and their mates can easily be found.
There are countless numbers of them roaming the ground.
Why are there so many? There must be a good reason.
For one thing, there is no such thing as a hunting season.

I was corner-stoned by many of you.
The note was dotted with a dash.
But this note was an ultimate smash.
I found a peephole and peeped through.
I found a bird gave him the note and away he flew,
Across the deserts and the valleys he was there in a flash,
Across the rivers and Oceans he made a great big splash.
He made it to the shore, but the note he began to chew.
He passed a timely test,
And his belly was full,
He did not stop to rest,
The note he had to pull.
The bird landed on the Oceans shore,
Singing praises of his rugged chore.